In Myanmar’s heartland, desperation fuels a shadow trade in stolen identities

The dry zone of central Myanmar has never been an easy place for ordinary villagers to make a living; and after five years of war, eking out an existence from crops or labour is harder than ever. But now a new commodity is in demand, one that offers easy money, but at a cost that few appreciate until it’s too late. In Chaung-U Township, Sagaing Region, at least 500 people have sold their personal data in recent months, handing over national ID cards, photographs, and biometric information in exchange for 50,000 kyat (around $12.50)—just enough to ease the pressure of survival for a few days. What they received in cash has already been spent. What they gave away may follow them for years. The buyers, according to local investigators and resistance groups, are linked to online gambling networks seeking to open mobile banking accounts under other people’s names. The transactions are simple, quick, and, for many villagers, difficult to refuse. A 38-year-old woman from the area recalls how it began not with strangers, but with someone familiar—a tractor driver. “The village tractor driver went to Chaung-U and, after hearing about it there, began organising the process. He told us we would receive 50,000 kyat if we brought our ID cards, so people started going with him on his tractor,” she said, adding that each person paid 5,000 kyat for the ride, leaving them with just 45,000 kyat. For families, the math was compelling. A household of five could earn enough to buy two large bags of low-grade rice—a real windfall in a region where food insecurity is constant. In communities strained by conflict, displacement, and inflation, such an offer carries weight. Jobs are scarce. Fuel prices are rising. Even basic goods are increasingly out of reach. But not everyone is immediately convinced. A 24-year-old woman who sold her data admits she hesitated before finally giving in to necessity. “I kept thinking about what they might use it for,” she said. “But we were in financial difficulty, and there are no jobs. We needed the money. So I took the 50,000 kyat.” She, like many others, was photographed alongside her ID card. The process was brief. No contracts, no explanations—just an exchange of data for cash. What villagers understood was limited: their information would be used to open mobile banking accounts. What they did not know—or were not told—was how those accounts might be used afterward. A mobile money service signboard at a shop in downtown Yangon in September 2016 (Photo: AFP) ‘Something wasn’t right’ Behind the scenes, a network of middlemen was expanding. Young men from the area, some already loosely connected to online gambling circles, were recruited as brokers. They were offered 100,000 kyat for each account they could help create. Their role was to find willing participants, collect their data, and facilitate the account setup. The incentive structure was clear: pay villagers 50,000 kyat, keep the remaining 50,000. For young people with few income options, it became an easy entry point into a growing underground economy. One 22-year-old man described how quickly the work scaled. “I could open five to 10 accounts a day,” he said. “In my village alone, I helped open about 100 accounts in around 20 days.” He was introduced to the scheme through a friend in Monywa. From there, communication moved online—to a Telegram account known only as “Kyi Kyi.” Instructions were sent digitally. Identities were transferred the same way. “I don’t even know if that’s their real name,” he said. “Everything was online.” The operation might have continued quietly if not for growing suspicion among local resistance authorities. In mid-March, an officer from the Chaung-U Township People’s Defence Organisation, Zarni Thein, noticed unusual activity. A former bank employee who had joined the Civil Disobedience Movement after the 2021 coup, he recognised the signs immediately. “I saw people submitting ID cards, opening accounts, and being paid,” he said. “I knew something wasn’t right.” His investigation uncovered a widening network. At least 26 young brokers were involved. By early April, around 300 people had already provided their personal data. The total has since risen to at least 500. Those identified as intermediaries were detained and questioned. Many admitted their roles. Most were later released after signing pledges not to repeat the activity, their parents called in as guarantors. But the larger network—the operators directing the scheme—remains out of reach. Due to limited territorial control and ongoing conflict, local authorities say they cannot easily identify or act against the higher-level organisers. The digital nature of the operation, combined with weak oversight, allows it to persist. Displaced people flee their homes in Sagaing’s Khin-U Township in August 2025 (Photo: Moe Oo / Myanmar Now) Destabilising communities Meanwhile, fear is spreading among those who participated. For many, the realisation of what they may have enabled is only now setting in. Their identities could be used for online scams, gambling transactions, or money laundering. Worse still, in a country where surveillance has intensified, there are concerns that the data could be accessed by the military. At checkpoints, authorities use advanced screening systems capable of verifying identities through facial recognition and centralised databases. For villagers who have already handed over their biometric data, the sense of vulnerability is acute. “I don’t dare travel with my ID card anymore,” the 38-year-old woman said. “They already have my photo. I don’t feel safe.” The anxiety is compounded by the broader security situation. Chaung-U lies near Monywa, home to the junta’s Northwestern Regional Military Command. Airstrikes and ground operations are frequent. Many villages in the area have already experienced violence and displacement. In this environment, even small decisions—like selling personal data—can carry unpredictable risks. At the same time, online gambling and scam networks appear to be gaining ground across Myanmar’s central region. Residents report increasing activity not just in Chaung-U, but in nearby townships such as Budalin, Ye-U, Depayin, and Shwebo. Young people, particularly those between 18 and 35, are the most involved. “Some are even pawning their houses,” said one local woman. “People warn each other not to get involved, but it’s still happening.” Resistance members and observers worry that these networks are exploiting the collapse of economic stability and rule of law since the coup. Some even suspect political motives—that such activities are being allowed, or at least not stopped, as part of a broader strategy to destabilise communities. There is also growing scrutiny of the financial system itself. Banking insiders note that large-scale account creation in a single area should be detectable. Each new account requires verification, confirmation codes, and system registration. In theory, unusual patterns could raise red flags. Yet the accounts in Chaung-U were opened in significant numbers, apparently without setting off any alarms. Whether this reflects gaps in oversight, systemic weakness, or something more deliberate remains unclear. What is clear is that responsibility ultimately falls on the named account holders—the villagers themselves. According to banking policies, the person whose ID is used is legally recognised as the account owner, regardless of who controls it in practice. That means any misuse—fraud, laundering, or illegal transactions—could be traced back to them. For people already living on the edge, this adds another layer of risk to an already precarious existence. Local resistance authorities are now planning awareness campaigns to warn residents about the dangers of selling personal data. They are urging those who opened accounts to close them as soon as possible. But reversing the damage may not be simple. Once data is shared, it cannot be retrieved. Once accounts are created, they may already be in use. In Chaung-U, the story is not just about scams or gambling. It is about how economic desperation can be leveraged, how trust within communities can be repurposed, and how the line between survival and exploitation can blur. For 50,000 kyat—a sum that disappears quickly—hundreds of people have traded something far more enduring: control over their own identity. And in a place where uncertainty is already the norm, that may prove to be the most costly exchange of all.

In Myanmar’s heartland, desperation fuels a shadow trade in stolen identities

Cash-strapped villagers sell personal data for quick money, risking surveillance, fraud, and long-term consequences

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